


Before the Cock Crows

by TiggyMalvern



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 20:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17669864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: A new life on the run can't just happen - there are plans and negotiation, and Biblical references, because Hannibal.





	Before the Cock Crows

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Red Dragon Con 5 micro-fiction zine After the Fall, organised through the wonderful efforts of trashbambi. The word limit was 650 - I just made it under the wire! Beta'd by [the lovely CrystalUsagi.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crystalusagi/profile)

  


He turns off the faucet and habit has him reaching for the razor, until his eyes meet his altered reflection.

Soft pad of bare feet on tile, and Will appears behind him in the mirror.

“It suits you.” Will runs his fingers along the line of Hannibal’s jaw, dragging slow over the lengthening stubble.

Hannibal considers his own face staring back at him. The incipient beard is almost entirely grey and ages him by a few years, though perhaps the word ‘distinguished’ may not be inappropriate once it’s fully established. “Whatever the aesthetics of it, I find the perpetual itch discouraging.”

Will lifts one eyebrow, a quirk at the edge of his lips. “Everyone should be willing to suffer for their transformation into artistic beauty, except you?”

“I didn’t say I was suffering, Will. I merely remarked on the sensation.”

“You can live with it. I want you to live with it.” Will’s hands settle on Hannibal’s shoulders, a pressure that speaks of possession. “I want us to live with it.”

“I already agreed to live with it,” Hannibal reminds him. “I made no advance promises to be happy about it.”

Will huffs out air, not quite a laugh. “Me being unhappy never stopped you from doing what you thought was best for me.” His fingers clench down, a line of hooks in Hannibal’s deltoids, but his voice is light. “A beard’s more for your benefit than mine. If you’re recognised and caught, I can spin some story, say you imprisoned me when I was injured, but you’re going right back to a secure unit.”

Hannibal tilts his head, his eyes fixed on Will’s in the mirror. “Is that what you would do, Will? Raise your hand in court and deny me thrice? Would you stand before the judge and declare ‘I know not the man,’ in the Biblical sense?”

Will dips his head to Hannibal’s neck, kissing and sucking slow along his collarbone. “I haven’t really thought about it.”

Hannibal shapes his hand to Will’s chin, lifts his face to meet his gaze. “I believe you have.”

A stretching silence, with his beloved as still as the humid cling of the air, and Hannibal only waits for him to speak. “I never managed to build a life I really wanted before you. I certainly can’t after you.” Will’s jaw tightens beneath his touch. “I have no intention of mimicking Bedelia Du Maurier.”

Bile drips from Will’s tongue with the words; there’s more to his history with Bedelia than jealousy, but the jealousy lingers, and Hannibal basks within its caustic glare. “I wouldn’t want you to emulate Bedelia’s tasteless public displays, but her initial reasoning was valid.”

Will lifts his hand to wrap over Hannibal’s own. “I spent five years denying you, Hannibal. Then I chose to stop.”

Hannibal twists beneath the grasp on his shoulder to face him directly. “A different choice made by Peter would not have availed Jesus.” He cups Will’s cheek with his other hand, standing close, breathing him, sleep and sweat and lingering semen rich above the acid taint of tension. “As long as you are free, we’ll find a way to end my confinement.”

Will’s lips twist, a quick snort of bitter humour. “It won’t be so easy a second time.”

“It wasn’t easy the first.” Hannibal tips his head, their foreheads and noses a gentle contact. “We’ve never been easy, Will, but we find ourselves where we need to be.”

Will’s arm slides around him, easing them together, lips touching and brushing in soft, slow movements. “You’re right,” he murmurs against his chin, and when he draws back, his eyes slant and narrow wickedly. “It does itch.”

Hannibal smiles. “It seems we are both to suffer for my transfiguration.” And he kisses Will again, because Will’s the only way his suffering ever ends.


End file.
